


Tooth and Nail

by ChristyCorr



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, BDSM, Consent Play, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 01:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17034180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: Dominic Frey has a duty to king and country to arrest radicals of all stripes, including anti-human agitators. The fact that he's been sleeping with the worst of them for over a year now might be a problem.





	Tooth and Nail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphoIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/gifts).



Two Home Office raids in a row! To hell with them all. Silas might well have evaded the bastards for now, but he had no illusions. He had lost far too many good people over his many years of underground political action. They would be back again, and someday he, too, would be the one taken away in chains. For now, it was the shop that bore the brunt of the impact: books thrown about; papers unbound and torn; fallen, broken bookshelves. And all this for pure sport, since the press they were looking for could hardly be stitched into binding. Bastards.

It hurt something deep in Silas to see his bookshop destroyed, this shop that he'd cared for over the years like a child. He put it back together piecemeal, taking each book into his hands with care and examining it, setting many aside for future repairs. He worried at the memory of the raid like a toothache. The Tory's presence— _Dominic Frey_ 's, damn him—added an almost unreal touch to the scene. Those devils tearing the shop apart, and Frey had just stood there. That Home Office bastard questioning Silas like a cur, accusing Harry of arson, and Frey had just stood there, barely said a word! When he had finally taken it upon himself to call them all off, he’d had the gall to make his parting words _It's Wednesday, and I for one have appointments_. As if they still had anything to say to each other. As if Silas wanted anything more than to tear him apart in retaliation. 

One thing these fucksters did not understand about Silas and his ilk was: if they'd had as little self-control as the government feared, not one of Frey's Home Office redcoats would have left the shop alive.

Yet, furious as he was, Silas kept coming back to this: Frey knew exactly just how strong he was and just how angry he was, and still he had asked Silas to go. As invitations went, it was unsubtle, if opaque to bystanders. It left further initiative entirely up to Silas. No doubt Frey could tell Silas had no intention of going—had, in fact, not even considered it a possibility—and so he’d taken it upon himself to signal his own willingness first.

But why? This was what Silas couldn't fathom. He couldn't imagine what they might do together at Millay's tonight. Frey certainly had no objection to pain or violence in the bedroom; was this what he wanted? A fistfight, perhaps, though in private Silas had no qualms about using the natural advantages that he kept hidden in polite society. The goddamned Tory would have no chance, he thought viciously. He might finally break and ask for mercy, as he hadn't in any of their encounters yet. Maybe Silas would give it to him. Maybe. If he asked nicely enough.

The shop's familiar scent, layered as it was with years of old paper, friends, strangers, ink, and dust, felt off tonight. Tainted. Gentlemen and their soaps, their perfumes and charms, always laid on so thick like they could mask the rot inside. Even Frey’s usual posh concoction was too much for his tastes.

It was always better to have him work up a sweat, to taste his desperation and arousal clear in the air, delicious and all for him. Nothing better. Silas lost a moment to far more pleasant memories, but they, too, now seemed contaminated by the revelation of Frey’s identity. Should he have known somehow? All the conversations they’d shared when they’d thought they were friends—would those come back to haunt him?

He had to go. Whatever Frey’s reasons, for his own sanity, he needed some sense of closure. He had to give Frey a piece of his mind, maybe throw in a punch or two, and that was it; they would never have another Wednesday together. 

The prospect of it ached, deep and hollow. Silas ignored the pain; there would be plenty of time for dwelling on that later.

* 

Silas arrived at Millay’s much later than usual. He’d been lost in thought during the walk from the shop, had talked himself into any number of moods and back, and had even almost given up on coming altogether. But by the end he was right back where he’d started: angry, sad, and eager to put all this behind him already. He’d found himself wishing he’d never met Frey at all. Wednesdays had made him happy, this past year. Best part of his routine, something he looked forward to every week. But that happiness was now tangled with misery, hurt, and worry; it hadn't been worth it, after all.

And now here he was: climbing the stairs to their usual room, listening in to the Tory’s heartbeat out of habit, scenting the air around him. Frey was nervous, and afraid. He’d been pacing the room, but stilled as soon as he heard the door.

Silas didn’t say a word; he didn’t need to. He tugged Frey in by the arm and pinned him against the wall, blunt nails digging into his neck. Frey’s body was pliant against his, but there was an edge of real alarm in his eyes. Good. Silas’ fingers tightened against the damned Tory's throat, longing to sharpen into claws, to pierce that too-soft skin. 

"You stood there and let them destroy my shop," he snarled. "They accused Harry of murder— _my books_ —"

"I must—it's my duty to identify and arrest seditionists." Frey was blinking fast, trying for formal and coming off stiff and unsure instead. "I cannot excuse the rudeness of the officers’ conduct. I do apologise for that. But we did receive credible reports that you were spreading inflammatory sedition of the most dangerous kind." 

Silas bared his teeth. Of course. That could only mean one thing.

For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder whether Frey had brought silver with him tonight. He couldn't sense any on him, but he might've hidden some around the room. Perhaps he might use it on Silas, even, should their encounter go badly.

Frey hadn't worn any silver to meet Silas since their first Wednesday together. He'd had multiple rings then, cufflinks, a belt, various trinkets; Silas had ordered him stark naked in seconds. In hindsight, the accessories were perhaps an obvious tell of his chosen profession, but the moneyed gentry so often wore silver that it hadn't occurred to Silas to wonder. So few people took the existence of werewolves seriously, and the government took such pains to spread rumours and misinformation about them, that only the odd criminal and Home Office grunts took pains to carry around weapons to hurt them. Yet when Frey had noticed Silas' aversion, he'd made all traces of silver disappear from the following Wednesday onwards.

Frey went on, "You're Jack Claw. You're the most infamous writer of radical anti-human pamphlets in England."

Like hell Silas was actually admitting it out loud to a government agent. "What's it to you?"

"I think I've always suspected on some level that you had radical sympathies. Our conversations were never exactly traditional." Frey leaned his head back against the wall. He seemed remarkably sanguine about a werewolf having him by the throat, given the nonsense he was spouting. "But this is unacceptable. Claw's been a wanted seditionist for years now. I have no issues with werewolves, you know that. I find the current laws on the subject reprehensible. But the ideas in the Claw pamphlets are still unforgivably dangerous."

"I've told you before, I don't abide by unjust laws. There's an entire group of people with no right to even talk about their existence in public, for fear of being gaoled. Hard to get more unjust than that. That's the only reason those pamphlets exist."

Frey set his jaw, glowering. "Anti-human sedition is the worst of its kind. It's always hidden between the lines in other radical writings, but in making a case for lycanthropic superiority, it poses an inarguable danger for all of mankind."

"Aye, that all sounds very believable," Silas replied. It was such a familiar bruise that the remark didn't even sting. "What with all werewolves having human families and lovers and friends and all."

At least Frey had the decency to look thoughtful. For all his wrong convictions, he did usually at least try to look at things from Silas' point of view, which was more than could be said for most. Still, he insisted, "I've been investigating sedition for the Home Office for four years now—"

But Silas had run out of patience. "Been enjoying all kinds of werewolf buggery for well on a year now too, for all the good that did," he interrupted. "You know damn well what I think. Don't feed me that tripe about what your people think it might be. You know better."

He watched as Frey examined past memories, lingering, considering. "You had no reason to lie when we were—" Frey hesitated, and then corrected himself. "—before you knew who I was."

Ah. They'd spent too much damn time together, Silas thought. They knew each other far too well.

"You knew what I was from the start," he said slowly.

"Yes."

"Liked it, too."

That took longer. 

Frey's eyes met his and held for a breath, two, three—so long that he grew increasingly aware of their position. Every point of contact between them seemed to radiate warmth. Silas was still holding Frey by the throat against the wall. He had Frey's hands on his arms, their legs entangled, barely a few inches between them. It was nothing. He could rip every stitch of clothing off Frey's body in half a second.

Their breaths quickened, hearts hammering with a mix of irritation and excitement that Silas himself couldn't quite untangle.

Frey shut his eyes. He took a careful breath, in and out. Silas could feel the deliberate shift in the angle of Frey's hips, the slight forward cant as they went softer against him. He watched the flush betraying Frey's need and shame spread from his cheeks to his neck and felt ravenous want surge inside himself in return.

This wasn't forgiveness on his part, capitulation on Frey's, or even a pause in their argument: it was just changing the rules of engagement.

Silas stepped in closer, their bodies touching everywhere from the chest down. He tightened his grip on Frey, made it almost suffocating. "You were all too happy for me to use my strength on you. You _enjoy_ it. Admit it."

A shiver went through Frey's body. For a moment, all Silas could smell was pure want, and it was intoxicating.

"No," Frey said. "Stop it."

Silas smiled, all teeth. "You've known all along you had a radical lowlife's prick in your mouth, haven't you? Did it make you that much harder? Should I have had you call me 'Jack Claw' when I was taking you from behind?"

Frey tried to shake his head; couldn't, with Silas holding him in place, forcing him to work for every breath. His heartbeat fluttered. "No. No!"

"I think you did like it. I think you could have your work silver right here and you would still be so desperate for a fuck that you would lay it at my feet. You can play at being all high and mighty out there, Tory, but you and I both know better, don't we?"

"Fuck you," Frey spat. He grabbed at Silas' forearms, ineffectively trying for leverage to push him away. Silas held fast; Frey's very willing scent was reassuring, no matter what he said. Frey's cockstand also clamoured for attention, straining against his breeches, but Silas had a lot of practice in neglecting it for effect by now.

He took a step back, then another, Frey's gaze never leaving him; he sat on the chair, legs spread wide, and brought his cock out with deliberate crudeness.

"Your duty, is it, to protect England from these vicious werewolves and to uphold her laws?" A sardonic smile. "Not in here, it's not. Strip. Get on your knees. Let's see if you're not desperate to break the law yourself."

Frey didn't hesitate or waste any time. It was always interesting to watch him remove his fancy, complicated clothes without a valet, but such was his desperation today that he didn't even take the usual care to hang everything. Once it was all on the floor, he fell to his knees and took Silas in his mouth with enthusiasm. 

Silas tugged at his black curls and held him in place, fucking his unresisting mouth with deliberate, hard strokes. 

"Very virtuous, Mr. Frey. Anyone can see you're truly dedicated. Would your colleagues at the Home Office approve, do you think?"

Silas pulled his hair tighter, appreciating the flush going down Frey's chest, all exposed for Silas' viewing pleasure. The bastard looked beautiful like that, he thought with some irritation, glaring at the lips stretched around his cock. He would never manage to forget this sight.

Frey's eyes were closed in devoted concentration, as if nothing else existed apart from Silas. He could've been anyone—why in all hells did he have to be a Home Office agent of all things? Now they were going to have to give this up, and never see each other again. Now everything was going to hell, thanks to Frey and the other Home Office bastards.

If they only knew! Images flashed through Silas' mind, unbidden. "Should I have ordered you to your knees this afternoon, in front of all of them? Shown them how good you are at sucking werewolf cock, how much you love it?"

Frey let out what might charitably be called a whimper and sucked harder as well as he could, hollowing out his cheeks. Silas knew the imagined shame hit Frey harder than anything physical could. It was impossible and quite insane, of course—they would both hang for it, to start with—but that didn't make the idea less potent. It held some appeal for Silas himself, though strictly in theory. In practice, he was a possessive bastard, and he loathed the Home Office with every fibre of his being. He already hated that he had to share Frey with it in any capacity.

But then, Silas pondered, maybe the public spectacle wasn't the only reason the idea appealed to Frey so much.

"I could also just send you off with a bite right here today," he said, covering the side of Frey's neck with his hand, shoulder to earlobe. "Show them who you belong to."

He felt Frey's full-body shudder, and for a moment Frey's mouth slackened around him. It was clear he loved it; they both did. Silas already sent Frey home with telling bruises on every possible occasion. He could try for a bite mark in a less visible spot tonight, maybe even more than one. He wished, suddenly and wildly, that they didn't live under the watchful eye of so-called civilised London. 

Madness, of course, utter madness. He couldn't give Frey an actual bite, naturally. But something smaller—that could be doable, couldn't it? It would mean no harm. It would be only for the two of them. Other 'wolves might be able to tell, though. They'd know to stay away from what was his. God. Silas must be losing his mind.

"Lie down on the bed, face down." 

And he did, head buried between his arms, the tantalising curve of his spine drawing Silas in like a magnet. "Don't touch me," Frey breathed out, every inch of him begging for the opposite. 

"Maybe I won't," Silas teased with a grin. He touched himself instead, lazy and careless, just for show, Frey's gaze following the movement hungrily. "Maybe I'll wait until you're so desperate that you can't help begging me for my hands, or my prick."

Frey's eyes met his, wide and frantic. Silas could well draw it out for hours; it wouldn't be the first time. And Frey would get to the point of begging, too, no doubt about that. He wasn't too far from it as things were now. Silas might not have been aware of his name or his profession, but he did know this man soul-deep—like one might a favourite book, often reread, which offered no less pleasure for the familiarity.

It was this that led him to lean closer and say into his ear, voice barely more than a whisper, "Or perhaps it's my teeth you want me to use."

"Oh, God, oh, please," Frey babbled as he felt Silas' teeth against his nape. Silas let them sharpen further and scraped them lightly down Frey's shoulderblades, then his back, his buttocks, his calves, hands warm against his waist to ground him. They were barely bites, just the lightest of touches, there and gone again, and again, and again. But Silas' fangs were like needles, and drew blood at the slightest contact.

It drove Frey absolutely delirious, his loud moans barely a string of coherent words anymore. He loved pain, loved the surrender and the helplessness of it, but Silas rarely gave in, preferring instead to toy with control and submission. Today was different. If it was to be their last time, it should be memorable. 

Frey kept pressing himself up closer to Silas' mouth, silently tempting him to bite deeper, and every second was a struggle for his self-control. He wanted it just as badly, was the dastardly thing. "Oh, please, oh, God, oh, oh, stop, _stop_ , please," Frey continued to moan nonsensically, body undulating to the rhythm of Silas' movements. 

He was so damned hypnotising. Silas focused on licking away the droplets of blood he was leaving behind, enjoying the excuse to touch Frey everywhere he wanted, unhurried, dropping filthy, open-mouthed kisses onto his abused skin. 

Frey grew more desperate the longer he went on, hips bucking against the bed in search of friction. Silas let it go on for a bit, let him get closer and closer, panting and flushed and gorgeous with it, and then said, "You don't spend unless I tell you," punctuating it with a hard nip to Frey's lower back. He stilled at once, trembling with the effort not to move. "What's between your legs is mine, like the rest of you. Turn around."

Silas feasted his eyes on the sight before him. His Tory had never looked more gorgeous: sweaty, flushed, and marked everywhere by Silas' own mouth, on the verge of spending, spread out on the bed, loose and unselfconscious, without any care in the world except for Silas' commands. There were tears in the corner of his glazed eyes—desperation, probably, or the struggle to control himself. So beautiful. Ah, damnation, Silas was going to miss this so much.

He put his hand to his own cock and started working it fast; it wasn't going to take long. "Won't let you until you admit you're mine, Tory. I want to hear you. Otherwise I'll just walk away and leave you here covered in my spend."

"No, please," Frey gasped, straining for him. "Yours, yours, ah, please—"

Silas' mouth barely had time to cover him whole before Frey's body arched in orgasm, with Silas bringing himself to completion moments later. He let his body fall onto the bed, nose buried in the crook of Frey's neck to better savour the scent of his satisfaction, limbs drawing him closer as if by their own accord. Frey was always soft and pliable for a few moments, after. Amid the hazy fog of lassitude and satisfaction in his mind, he felt a pulse of urgency: he would never get to do this again. He would never get to touch him again. 

Silas felt the sudden temptation to start all over, to chain Frey to the bed and not let him out for days.

"I need to say something," Frey said. 

Silas met his gaze. They were still tangled in each other, and Frey had made no move to stand. He seemed serious now, thoughtful, and Silas braced himself to continue their discussion. He'd forgotten at some point along the line there that they'd been fighting, that they were on opposite sides tonight; he'd flayed himself open for Frey's benefit, laid bare what he wanted and feared the most, and now he'd get his just deserts. Stupid, so stupid.

"Those things you said about why I—find your company desirable. You're as welcome to use them to get to me as you are any other filth, but you must know that they're not true at all." 

Silas eyed him, careful. His heart lurched painfully. He didn't want to hear this. Ah, Tory. 

"I enjoy our conversations, so I do appreciate our differences and your unorthodox ideas, for my sins. I think that if more people were willing to discuss everything as frankly as we do, politics would not be as hopeless a minefield as it is. But beyond that, I believe we—understand each other. Better than most, or at least certainly better than any in my acquaintance." That damned Richard again, no doubt. He watched Frey visibly steel himself for one last burst of honesty, and: "I wouldn't have you walk away thinking all I wanted was to spread for any random werewolf. I like it because it's part of _you_ , Silas."

Silas stood up and began to pace the room. His mind was a whirlwind. He'd already known, on some level; but he didn't know Frey did, too. But Frey admitting it didn't remedy any of their problems. If anything, it made them muddier. 

"Doesn't change anything," he said. "You're still you and I'm still me. You want to see Jack Claw in gaol, well, that's more than just a difference of opinion. That's beyond fixing."

"I thought the Claw pamphlets defended mass murder of humans," Frey countered. "There's a lot of panic about anti-human sedition. I can't say I agree with everything the Home Office does—especially since I met you, I've had the occasion to doubt much of what I'm doing there. But in this I have no doubt at all. I don't want you in gaol regardless, Silas; I know you're a good man. If mass murder is not what those pamphlets defend, then everything about the case is wrong."

"Of course it bloody well isn't what they defend."

"Well then." He smiled, tentative and apologetic. "I will do what I can to have the Claw case re-examined. And we both want to protect Harry. This arson business will not go away easily."

Silas frowned. "I can take care of myself. Never asked you to put your job at risk for my sake, or Harry's."

"I know you can. And you needn't ask; I'm offering. It may not help matters much. I'll try. In any case, there are alternatives that we can discuss, possible lines of action, once we know what our options are."

'Our options.' Their relationship had only ever developed Wednesday by Wednesday so far, and Silas wasn't used to thinking of Frey as a partner outside of these walls. Yet here they were, trying to trust each other with their lives. It was a terrifying thought.

But even as he wondered at the impossibilities of their situation, Silas already knew that there was no giving it up. He needed this, lived for this, Wednesday by Wednesday. He could no more walk away than he could stop reading, or breathing. Not while he had the choice.

He took a deep breath. "Next Wednesday, then, aye?"

Frey's smile was brilliant. "Next Wednesday."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, SapphoIsBurning! And thanks for the beta, J 💜


End file.
